18 May, 2010

"Hope" is the thing with feathers--

That perches in the soul-
And sings the tune without the words-
And never stops - at all-

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard-
And sore must be the storm-
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm-

I've heard it in the chillest land-
And on the strangest Sea-
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of Me.

One of my favourite Dickinson poems.